


Soaked Through

by StoryTyme



Category: Wooden Overcoats (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Rudyard Funn, First Kiss, Fluff, Guilty eric, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Snuggling, Worried Eric, ill Rudyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26658838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoryTyme/pseuds/StoryTyme
Summary: Eric finds Rudyard slumped in a puddle during a storm. After a stern lecture from the doctor, Eric has two realizations.
Relationships: Eric Chapman/Rudyard Funn, Georgie Crusoe & Rudyard Funn
Comments: 5
Kudos: 94





	Soaked Through

Eric Chapman rather liked the rain. He rather like most things, or at least some facet of them. What he didn’t like was being caught in pelting rain without his cap and a torn windbreaker (a tree’s doing, and not Rudyard’s, surprisingly).

Truthfully, Eric was surprised by the rain. He usually enjoyed the cheery, sunny weather of Piffling Vale. It couldn’t be helped, he supposed. Sooner or later, a winsome smile would fail to sway the weather in his favor.

As Eric scampered beneath the awnings of shopfronts, sending up sheets of water as he tramped through puddles, he was stopped as he spotted a lumpy shape in the distance. 

Initially believing it to be a collapsed stray, he trudged towards it at a hurried pace, hoping he would be able to revive it (he’d been a vet a long time ago).

What he found slumped at his feet, however, was a different creature entirely from a dog. Still wet and miserable, to be sure, but undoubtedly the pallid features of one Rudyard Funn. 

A shot of panic ripped through Eric’s chest. He knelt to scoop up the (entirely too skinny) prone man, carrying him with ease under one of the awnings. Rudyard’s head lolled sickly against his shoulder, and Eric heard him mumbling weakly—a nonsensical stream of consciousness with Antigone’s name popping in occasionally.

“God, Rudyard, you’re trembling.” Rudyard’s shaking fingers clutched briefly at the lapels of Eric’s coat, then fell away again as their strength faded.

Eric deposited Rudyard on the sidewalk with some reluctance. His fingers cradled the back of his neck, lingering a moment as he set him down. He stripped off Rudyard’s top layers (leaving the trousers on, of course; neither could stomach that level of impropriety) and replaced them with the tattered windbreaker.

Still kneeling beside the shaking, senseless Rudyard, Eric whipped out his phone and dialed the station. Georgie answered with ice in her tone.

“What do ya want, Chapman?”

“You’ve memorized my number?”

“‘Course. I’m great at memorizing numbers.”

Eric shook it off. “Never mind that. Georgie, we need an ambulance immediately. Rudyard’s collapsed in the street.”

“He bloody what? Oh, I told him—hang on, Chapman. Let me grab the keys from the office.”

The mayor’s waiting music (something by Bach) trilled in Eric’s ear a moment before Georgie was on again.

“Right. I’ll be over in a jiffy. Keep ‘em warm. Anything happens to him, and this town’ll be down two funeral directors.”

Georgie hung up before Eric could reply. Just as well. He would have to focus on keeping Rudyard warm.

Eric pulled Rudyard up against himself, with the slighter man flush up against Eric’s chest. Once again, Eric was struck by how thin the (slightly) elder Funn was. The ridges of his spine poked at Eric’s stomach like boney knives. The pallor of his skin was even paler than usual, and nearly translucent from lack of likely any vitamin the human body needed.

“Oh, Rudyard…” Eric squeezed Rudyard against him gently, willing his body heat into the other. Rudyard’s head fell back against his throat, and Eric fit his chin over the top of his head.

Rudyard’s hair was slick with rain, and Eric wished desperately for a towel to dry him with. Instead, he pressed himself further into the freezing Funn. Where was that damn ambulance?

As soon as he thought it, the yellow vehicle came racing around the corner at breakneck speeds. It skid to a stop meters away from the pair, and Georgie flew out of the driver’s side like a shot.

She wrenched open the back, where a gurney waited with a woolen blanket thrown haphazardly upon it. She snapped in Eric’s direction as she pulled down the ramp.

“Put ‘em here, Eric. I don’t want this getting soaked through in the rain.”

Dutifully, Eric complied. He scooped up Rudyard once more; near sprinting through the rain and into the back of the ambulance. Georgie raised an eyebrow when he didn’t jump back out.

“Well, someone needs to stay with him. You can’t drive the ambulance and watch him, can you?”

Georgie grunted disagreeably but shut the door anyway.

Eric set about fussing over Rudyard and arranging the blanket. Leaning over him, he slid an arm under Rudyard’s head to pillow it. With the other hand, he reached for Rudyard’s hand. 

“Hang on, Rudyard,” he murmured, kneading the back of the man’s hand with his thumb.

Rudyard said nothing; only turned is head into the crook of Eric’s arm with a sigh.

Eric would have been lying if he had said his heart didn’t skip at that.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Doctor Agnes Harrow of Piffling Vale’s Second Hospital (the official title, thanks to Mayor Desmond) was in the ambulance bay when Georgie pulled in.

Dr. Edgeware’s niece had arrived on the island only a few months previous to alleviate some of the stress on her uncle. Already, she and her staff (two whole nurses!) had managed to wrangle the practice into some kind of order. As it was, she had finished her rounds for the evening and just grabbed a cup of subpar hospital espresso when Georgie called in.

Sighing, she made her way down the stairs and waited, sipping reluctantly, for the ambulance to arrive.

It sped into the bay at an impossible speed; halting with the front bumper a few centimeters from her shins. Dr. Harrow sighed and pulled her pen from the messy bun atop her head. It was going to be one of those then.

The moment she was around to the back of the ambulance, the doors burst open to reveal a severely frazzled Eric Chapman. Other women may have paused to appreciate the way his hair looked—playfully tousled—or the cherry color his chilled cheeks had turned. Other women were not Dr. Harrow—much too tired, and much too gay to care.

“Doctor!” Eric had the gurney down the ramp nearly the moment Georgie had it down. Dr. Harrow caught the end of it as it plowed into her and passed a critical eye over her patient.

He was freezing—probably hypothermia—with blue-tinged lips and a shaking figure. His gaunt, malnourished frame wouldn’t have done much to keep out the cold. Neither would the suit jacket Eric held wrapped around his arm. 

“Right—JULIA!”

Eric and Georgie startled at Dr. Harrow’s bellow.

Nurse Julia Eckhart blasted through the doors, took one look at the gurney, snatched it from the doctor, and sped off to the ICU.

Dr. Harrow didn’t bother shouting orders after her. Julia knew plenty well what she was doing. She’d probably have the man on fluids and halfway to full health by the time she got there. With any luck, she’d have most of the charts drawn as well. Dr. Harrow pivoted on her heel, already in hot pursuit. 

Eric called after her— “Doctor wait! Can’t I be allowed in?”

“No. Visiting hours are tomorrow at seven till four.” Dr. Harrow kept walking. “Same for you, Miss Crusoe. Please inform Mr. Funn’s sister of his condition. I doubt she’ll answer my calls.” (Antigone had been dodging her flu shots).

“Right then.” Georgie sounded a mite hesitant but complied. Antigone and Madeline would be anxious for news on the missing man.

Chapman began to protest. “But—”

“Please take Mr. Chapman and your ambulance with you, Miss Crusoe.”

Georgie sighed dramatically. “Fine. C’mon, Chapman.”

There were sounds of a scuffle and a muffled shout as Georgie scruffed and dragged Eric to the ambulance. The shuffling died as Georgie manhandled Eric into the back and took off before he could jimmy the lock.

Dr. Harrow sighed and chugged the rest of her coffee. These people were really too much.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Agnes Harrow was a stern looking young woman, with shrewd eyes and a grip on her coffee mug which, if nothing else, betrayed her relation to the good doctor of Piffling Vale.

That same mug was currently perched on the corner of an impossibly thick, remarkably balanced clipboard. Occasionally, Dr. Harrow would stop scratching at her charts and sip from the mug, make a face, and resume scratching. 

“So,” Dr. Harrow addressed Rudyard, “Explain once more what it was you were doing out in the rain in the middle of winter?”

A good night’s rest, and a steady stream of fluids and vitamins from the IV, had gotten Rudyard back on his metaphorical feet. (If he tried to stand, Nurse Eckhart had permission to sedate him into next week).

“We needed more tinder for the fireplace at home, and the way to the store floods after too long. I suppose I underestimated the weather a bit…” Rudyard laughed nervously.

Dr. Harrow stopped glaring and pinched the bridge of her nose. A stress migraine was forming.

“And what, pray, prevented you from donning a coat on the way out?”

“Sold it.”

“A cap?”

“Sold it.”

“Mittens?”

“Sold them.”

“Some warm bloody socks?”

“Madeline was cold.”

Dr. Harrow set down the coffee and clipboard on a tray table. She pulled a chair up to Rudyard’s bedside, and bent to eye-level. 

“Now look here,” Rudyard began twitchily, “A bit of rain never killed—no wait, Mr. Rosen dropped dead from it last year, though I blame the slip more than anything.”

The doctor held up a hand, halting Rudyard’s rambling.

“Mr. Funn,” she asked carefully; “When was the last time you had a full meal?”

Rudyard raised his chin proudly. “Now look here—”

“No, Mr. Funn, you look—I have never seen a patient in such a bad way. You lacked nearly every vitamin the body requires to function when you came in. You’re severely underweight and show signs of acute sleep deprivation. Honestly, you were well on your way to collapsing before the weather got to you.” Dr. Harrow softened her tone. “I need to know your circumstances if I am to help you. So I ask again: When was the last time you had a full, healthy, balanced meal?”

Rudyard hesitated. “I suppose…a year or so.”

Dr. Harrow stopped her sharp inhale. She worried at her lip thoughtfully. “Forgive me for asking, but that would be around the time Eric Chapman—”

“Chapman!”  
“—arrived and, to put it indelicately, took most of your business?”

“Yes,” Rudyard hissed. A crazed light gleamed in his eye—desperate and wrathful.

“I thought as much.” Dr. Harrow stood and brushed imaginary dust from her trousers. “Considering the circumstances, Mr. Funn, we’ll keep you through the rest of the week. Afterwards we can discuss proper nutrition. Your sister will be in this afternoon to check on you—apologies, Mr. Funn, but we couldn’t allow her to bring Madeline.”

Rudyard deflated a little at that, but still seemed cheered by the prospect of visitors. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Dr. Harrow.”

Dr. Harrow gave him a gentle smile. “Yes. Don’t be surprised if Mr. Chapman stops in, by the way. He was rather fretful when he and Miss Crusoe dropped you off last night. She had to drag him away from your side.”

With that, Agnes departed, bemused by the flabbergasted look on Rudyard’s face.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Eric bounded through the hospital doors with the enthusiasm of a cracked-up labradoodle. Nurse Braswell barely slapped a visitor’s badge on his chest before he was barreling through the halls. He nearly collided with Dr. Harrow three doors from Rudyard’s room.

“Run in my hospital like that again, and you’ll be in the bed next to him.” Dr. Harrow’s glare could have frozen Hell.

Eric turned his eyes to the floor, abashed. “Sorry, Doctor. I’ll be on my way—”

“A moment, Mr. Chapman.” Dr. Harrow’s hand caught him in the chest. (Eric felt slightly offended when it didn’t linger like most).

“Yes?”

“Mr. Chapman, I make a point of protecting my patients’ privacy—Hippocratic Oath, and all that.” The doctor waved a dismissive hand. “So I can’t be too explicit as I tell you this.”

“Alright…”

“Are you aware of the financial state of Funn Funerals?”

Eric thought of the bare kitchen, floors, walls, and living room. “I have an idea.”

“How is your own business faring?”

“Very well, thank you,” Eric admitted warily. 

“Bully for you, Mr. Chapman.”

“Excuse me?”

Dr. Harrow shrugged. “You’re a businessman—a damn good one too, I’ll admit. I expect you enjoy all the comforts which come with such success.”

Eric grew tired of her cryptic hints. “What exactly are you trying to say, Doctor?”

“I’m merely wondering if, with all your apparent success, it might not hurt to throw the occasional bone.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “What bone would that be?”

If this was about a donation to the hospital, the doctor picked a hell of a time for it.

Dr. Harrow remained impassive. “Mr. Funn was rather skinny, don’t you think? He could benefit from a decent meal.”

Ah. The lightbulb in Eric’s head flickered on as Dr. Harrow swept past him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rudyard eyed Eric warily from the bed, still clutching the pressed flower—a petunia from Mrs. Glenn’s funeral—Antigone had brought him.

Eric looked uncharacteristically nervous as he entered the room—a bit like a kicked puppy, actually. Rudyard would have been rather pleased, had the doctor’s words not still been kicking around his head. Besides, things between them had become a bit less hostile since the wedding and Nana Crusoe’s funeral—less malicious and more of a proper rivalry.

Eric’s gaze roved across Rudyard’s body, taking in the IV, the hospital gown, and the bags under his eyes. “Rudyard,” he breathed.

Rudyard shifted uncomfortably. “Now look here, Chapman. I understand you were the one to call Georgie, and I suppose, as such, I may, in this instance, be inclined to thank—”

“Rudyard, I’m so sorry!” Eric collapsed in the chair beside Rudyard, head in hands. “Bloody hell, this is all my fault.”

Rudyard glanced about the room, sure for a moment he was being—what was the word? —punked. “What in the hell are you on about?”

“I just—the state of you! I can’t believe I never noticed before. You look awful.”

“Thank you, Chapman. It’s almost as if I’ve just lain in an ice-cold puddle for two hours,” Rudyard drawled icily.

“No—I mean—when I picked you up, you were so damn thin, and I never noticed before. How did I never notice?” Chapman sounded pained.

“Not all of us have biceps capable of benching cars, Chapman.” 

“Yes, I know that. I mean, I knew you were a slight fellow—but god, Rudyard, I could feel every bone in your body. And you were so pale—paler than usual. Your lips were blue, for god’s sakes.” Chapman was rambling now. He raked his fingers through his hair, and Rudyard felt some satisfaction as his perfect part was ruined. Finally, he looked up, absolutely stricken. “It’s all my fault, isn’t it?”

“What?” Rudyard was thoroughly confused now.

“If I hadn’t swooped, you wouldn’t be in this state. You wouldn’t be scrambling for work. You wouldn’t be scrounging to pay for a decent meal, or nicking kettles, or selling off your furniture. You could eat more than a slice of bloody bread for—”

“Stop. Right. There.” Rudyard mustered his strength and pushed himself upright.

Chapman looked surprised.

Rudyard jabbed a finger at his chest. “Don’t you dare pity us. I may have sold off all the furniture, kettle, rugs, family heirlooms—”

“What?”

“—but I damn well haven’t forsaken my pride. I swear to you, Chapman, no matter my state, I will come out of this bed and punch you in your perfect face. I have my dignity, and I’ll stand by it. Don’t you doubt that for a moment.”

Chapman’s brow creased with worry. “I’m…sorry, Rudyard. I don’t mean to offend. I’m just worried. I don’t like to see you this way—it make me feel…well, I don’t quite know what to call it.”

Rudyard looked at Chapman—really looked at him. His polo shirt was disheveled and wrinkled, as if he’d just thrown on whatever was closest. His eyes were shadowed with dark bags, as if he hadn’t slept well the past night. Most noticeably, his typical sunshine-inducing, ever-present smile was absent. In its place remained a worried frown and sad, soft doe eyes.

Before he could really think about it, Rudyard reached for the hand resting on his bed. He laced his fingers awkwardly with Eric’s.

Eric looked at him in awe. “I—Rudyard?”

“Stop blubbering,” he admonished gently. “It doesn’t suit you. I can’t despise you when you’re this pathetic.”

His words were harsh, but there was no bite to them. Eric smiled—not the million-watt smile, but a softer one. It was a smile Rudyard recognized as being just for him.

They stayed like that a moment, holding hands while Eric smiled.

Eventually, Eric stood to leave. Biting his lip in a rare display of hesitation, he leaned over to press a gentle kiss on Rudyard’s forehead. 

Rudyard stiffened at the touch, unused to such affection; then melted into it. His arms came up to wrap around Eric’s neck, and he pulled him into a deep, proper kiss. Eric sighed against his lips, and for a moment Rudyard was heady with bliss.

“Stay,” he whispered, pulling Eric towards the bed. 

Eric complied, rolling to free the IV tube before settling against Rudyard’s back. He draped a possessive arm around Rudyard, drawing him close and kissing the back of his neck. He sighed happily into his hair.

“Eric,” Rudyard whispered hesitantly, “You know I don’t—I can’t go any further than this.”

Rudyard braced himself for Eric to pull away, for the familiar sting of cold, hard rejection.

“I know, Rudyard. Believe me, this is enough.”

The tension left Rudyard’s shoulders, and a thrill of warmth bloomed in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he craved this—being wanted, being enough for someone.

“You could…I could make you happy, then?”

Eric huffed a laugh, tickling the back of Rudyard’s neck. “Of course you can. You already do. Sure, you drive me up the wall half the time, but I’ve never met a more fascinating, delightful man as you. Yes, Rudyard, you make me very bloody happy.”

Rudyard smiled softly against his pillow. 

“But,” Eric continued, “You know what would make me ecstatic? If you allowed me to feed you on occasion. You and Antigone.”

Rudyard scoffed, then relented. “Very well. Just as long as Madeline gets some.”

Eric laughed again, sending a thrill down Rudyard’s spine. “Madeline will have her own full-course meal.” He pressed another kiss to Rudyard’s neck. “Get some sleep, luv.”

“You’ll stay?”

“Of course.”

They stayed, wrapped in each other’s arms, sleeping peacefully through the night. If it was well after visiting hours, the staff didn’t seem to notice.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing for this fandom, and I'd really love your feedback. Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
